Christmas Card from a Shepherd

Dear N’na and N’baba,

You wouldn’t believe what happened to me tonight if you didn’t love me. But you do love me so I know you’ll believe me, and I know your mouth and your eyes and your ears and your heart will be as wide open as mine are when I tell you.

The evening was like any other evening for a poor, lonely, ten year old shepherd like me. Momadu, the shepherd on the hill next to mine, brought his sheep by me on the way back from the stream below us. His first sheep had a sticker on it’s bump that said, “Sheep Happens,” and when Momadu passed by he threw up his hands and smiled and said, “We’re in deep sheep,” so that made me laugh. There’s nothing like good sheep humor to lighten a shepherd’s heart.

I led my own flock down to the water. Small clouds of dust rose from the dry, hard, ground as we made our way down the hill. My bare feet stepped over the stony field, calloused from a young lifetime of playing, working and living without shoes.

My sheep seemed to be growing out of the ground, their feet deeply rooted in the dirt. 

“The Lord God formed life from the dust of the ground,” teaches Holy writ.

I understand.

When we returned to the top of our hill, and I laid the sheep down in the green pastures for the night, the thing that has changed my life, the thing that will change your life, the thing that will change life itself, happened.

An angel of the Lord stood before me, me a lowly shepherd, and the glory of the Lord shone around me, and I was terrified. But the angel said to me, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!”

When the angels left me, I ran to Momadu and shouted, “Did you see what I saw? Did you hear what I heard?” He did. “Let’s go now to Bethlehem,” I continued, “And see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.”  

We went quickly and found Mary and Joseph. 

The child was lying in the manger. 

Mary and Joseph looked at us. We were standing outside of the stable. Our clothes were tattered and torn, our feet were bare and dirty, and we smelled like sheep. I expected them to ask us to leave. But they surprised us. “Come here,” they whispered. They put their arms around our shoulders. “Welcome,” they whispered. 

Mary picked up the baby and put him in my arms. “This is Jesus,” she said. 

He looked up at me. His brown eyes were the same color as my eyes, his brown skin was the same color as my skin. his tattered clothes were as holey as my clothes. I sleep on the hay, too.

I held him close and felt his little heartbeat on my chest. I kissed his forehead with a gentle kiss. He smiled at me, and my life was changed forever.

“Thank you,” I said to Mary and Joseph. “You’re welcome,” they said. They kissed Momadu and I on our foreheads with gentle kisses and sent us on our way.

We told everybody about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what we told them!

But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. We returned, glorifying and praising God for all we had heard and seen, as it had been told us.

Now I’m telling it to you!

N’na and N’baba, I think I know what God is telling us. We’re the smallest and most forgotten people in the world, and God, in this little baby, has remembered us!

God is with us!

The world sees us as chancers and scroungers, layabouts and loungers. Us...the unseen ones. Us...the unloved ones. Us...the lonely ones. But God...God sees us. God...God loves us.  God...God is with us!

As you lay your heads down on your mats tonight, and sleep comes softly over you like a wool blanket, please know that I am

Your Bala

God’s shepherd

- Trevor Scott Barton, Advent, 2019

stories for a brown eyed girl

There are five foundational forces in the universe.

They hold everything together. 

They can bring order and cause chaos.

Four of them can be explained by physics - the gravitational force, the electromagnetic force, the weak force and the strong force.

The gravitational force keeps planets in orbit around their suns and our feet firmly planted on the earth.

The electromagnetic force brings us electricity, information in computers, and connection - it underlies the mighty power of lightning and the gentle touch of the human hand.

The weak force brings us nuclear energy and makes stars shine.

The strong force holds quarks inside of protons and neutrons and holds protons and neutrons inside of atoms.

The fifth foundational force can’t be explained by physics, though.

It can only be explained by friendship.

It is love.

Taki and Hilcias stepped off of the Greyhound bus into the early morning sunlight.

“Where should we go?” asked Taki.

She looked at the horizon between the Gulf of Mexico and the Brownsville sky. 

She was very still and very quiet.

Hilcias looked at the horizon, too.

“I guess we should go to the water,” he whistled, “If we’re going to find 52 Blue.”

They reached out for each other’s hands.

They walked together down the road toward the gulf.

This reaching out and walking together created that fifth foundational force, which is the strongest force of all, for it keeps hearts in orbit around each other and gives the possibility of being able to find a lost and lonely whale in the vast reaches of the deep, deep sea.

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2019

poems for a brown eyed girl

writing haiku

i am a pencil

looking, listening, writing

the world is my page

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2019

stories for a brown eyed girl

The Greyhound bus chugged out of the station in downtown Charleston into the South Carolina night. There were 4,000 miles between Charleston and Point Hope. 

"That's about how far blue whales migrate from Mexico to Alaska," thought Hilcias. "If they can make it, maybe I can make it, too."

This first part of the journey would take four days. He closed his eyes. He felt the tires of the bus thump against the road, listened to the soft snore of a soldier in the seat behind him, and swayed gently from side to side as the driver moved from lane to lane around late night drivers. He drifted off to sleep and became a blue whale, the thump of his giant fluke in the deep waters moving him along at 14 miles per hour, the songs from other blue whales from different waters touching his great heart, his giant body swaying from side to side in the Pacific Ocean waters.

He woke to the hand of a frail, old woman on his shoulder. 

"'Scuse me," she whispered, "I hate to wake you up but my ticket says I'm 'sposed to sit here beside you."

He rubbed his eyes with the fists of his hands and looked up into the face of the woman in the soft glow of the bus lights.

There were deep wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and across her forehead. They didn't seem to be wrinkles of worry that he'd seen on his mamí’s and abuelo’s faces as they worked the fields and lived among strangers in small Southern towns. No, they seemed to be wrinkles of kindness that might have come from years and years of loving and hoping, the kind of wrinkles you get when you cradle a baby in your arms and rock it deep into the night, the kind that come when you study the small, quiet things in the world and wonder why so few people see or hear or touch the beauty they hold.

She tried to keep her eyes open, but they stayed closed a bit longer with each blink, and her head nodded to each passing mile along the highway. Her breathing came into rhythm with the wheels of the bus on the road. The bus moved around a curve and she slid ever so slightly against Hilcias’ body. His small shoulder sank into her tired, withered breast and his smooth cheek rested on the folds of skin on her thin, bony neck. Her gentle breaths made a soft whistle through her nose, so soft that no one who was not as close to her as Hilcias could hear it. Hilcias not only heard it but also understood the story the whistles told. 

Here is that story.

- When my chi'ren were yo age, they walked to school 'long a dirt road. 'Bout haf way dere, a school bus'd pass dem by, ev'ry day. It'd stir up mo dust'n you evah seen'n yo life and dat dust'd swirl 'round my chi'ren, cling to dey skin, and turn de water in dey eyes to mud. "Why won't dat bus stop and pick us up, momma?" dey asked me.

Well, I knew dey'd come a day when I'd haf to sit wid'em at de table and tell'em 'bout de way things was, 'bout how a school bus wit white chi'ren on it couldn't haf black chi'ren on it, too, 'cause dats de laws of men's hearts.

But I know'd dat day hadn't come quite yet. I hoped so much in my own heart dat 'fore dat day came, a new day's come when de laws of God's heart'd overcome de laws of men's hearts and dat bus'd stop, op'n it's doors, and welcome my chi'ren on board.

"Don't you all worry 'bout dat bus now, you hear?" I answered my chi'ren. "Lissen now, when dat bus passes you by, you stop for a minit and think 'bout dat dust all 'round you. Breathe deep and let it come into yo lungs 'till you breathe it out wit yo breath. Den take de back a yo hands n'rub'em in you wat'ry eyes 'till de mud comes off on 'em. You think 'bout dat dust and dat mud. You 'member dat dust is made up'a tiny little dust particles, so small you cain't see 'em 'less dey all together. And you 'member dat mud is what we all made of, all of us, folks inside de bus n outside de bus, and one kind'a mud ain't superior to another kind'a mud, it's all just de stuff God made us out of. 'Member dat, my loves. 'Member dat."

Hilcias listened to her sleeping, listened to the soft whistles of her breathing, listened to her face, and he loved her.

"A blue whale's heart is as big as a Volkswagon Bug," he thought. "It must feel love very deeply and widely, because it's heart is so deep and wide. My heart is just the size of my fist. I don't think it can hold as much love as a blue whale's heart. I surely feel a deep and wide love for her, though."

"Where could this love come from?" he thought. "I don't know. Maybe it's because we're both small, quiet ones who no one sees or hears, in our own ways. I hope I'm as beautiful as her. I hope I whistle the same beautiful song as her."

He put his tiny hand on top of hers. 

You've heard of the narwhal whale, haven't you? Along with the bowhead and beluga whales, it is an Arctic whale, living all it's life in the icy waters of the Arctic ocean. It's called the unicorn of the sea because it has a single horn that protrudes up to nine feet out of it's forehead. In older days, it's horn was given to the kings and queens of Europe to use as scepters, for many thought there was great power and even magic in it. 

It's not really a horn, though. It's a tooth. Like a human tooth, it is very, very sensitive. If a narwhal tooth breaks, it causes the poor narwhal a sharp and abiding pain. When that break happens, an amazing thing happens in the life of narwhals. Another narwhal places it's tooth into the broken tooth of the hurting narwhal and that act of kindness assuages the pain.

He hoped his hand might somehow assuage her pain, too.

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2019

Notes from public school - day 83

We made it!

Winter break is here.

I’m sitting in a still and silent classroom.

“Goodbye, Mr. Barton...we love you!” echoes through the halls and in my heart.

One thought buzzes in my writer’s ears.

I am a humble bumblebee.

Aerodynamically, the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumblebee doesn't know it, so it goes on flying anyway.

I go on teaching.

I go on writing.

I go on caring.

Into a new year in public school.

Notes from public school - day 81

During the school year, I wake up an hour before I need to get up.

“Ugh,” I start to say to myself, “Today’s going to be a Murphy’s Law kind of day, I just know it!Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.”

Do you ever do that?

“Wait,” I stop myself. “How can you be the good in the world today?”

Then I begin to tell myself ways I can make the world a better place through my teaching and through my writing and through my just being.

Since it is Christmastide, I asked myself this morning, “Hmmm, who would you like to be in the Christmas story and how could it make a difference at school today?”

And I thought of the Angel Gabriel.

I try to bring good news to my students from families struggling with economic poverty. “I’m thankful you’re here...you have a place in my heart...I’ll do everything I can to help you have food in your stomach, clothes on your back and a roof over your head before I help you learn how to write and do math and think scientifically,” I say to them over and over and over again, so when they wake up in the middle of the night worrying and trembling and sobbing and asking themselves, “Where will my next supper come from...how will I stay warm on this cold day...where will we sleep tonight?” they’ll remember that I care and that I am here.

“Don’t be afraid,” I say. “I’ll use all I have to make sure you have enough.”

I try to bring good news to my students who can’t read well or do multi-step math problems. “I’m thankful you’re here...you have a place in my heart...look at how smart you are and what you already know,” I say to them over and over and over again, so when they think they aren’t smart and can’t do the work they’ll remember that I care and that I am here.

“Don’t be afraid,” I say. “I’ll walk with you step by step until you get it.

I try to bring good news to my students from Mexico, Central America and South America. “I’m thankful you’re here...you have a place in my heart...you make this country great because you’re so wonderful,” I say to them over and over and over again, so when they hear hateful words and see angry faces and are afraid they’ll remember that I care and that I am here.

“Don’t be afraid,” I say. “I’ll use my words and give my life to keep you safe.”

I try to bring good news and comfort like the good Angel Gabriel.

All in the days before winter break in public school.

stories for a brown eyed girl

Kiss

They held hands side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and leaned toward each other until they touched cheek to cheek. 

She turned and kissed him, her lips touching his skin so softly he thought they were rain drops on the petals of the magnolia flower on the branch of the tree outside his window, her breath blowing his skin so gently he thought it was the brush of the wind that rocked the tree in the early morning light.

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl